The Forbidden Ferrara

A Ferrara would never sit down at a Baracchi table for fear of being poisoned.

So Fia had no idea why he was at her restaurant and terror rippled through her. He didn’t know.

He couldn’t know.

‘Buonasera, Fia.’

A deep male voice came from the doorway and she turned. Still the same ‘born to rule’ Ferrara self-confidence, the same innate sophistication polished until it shone bright as the paintwork of his Lamborghini. He was six foot three of hard, sensual masculinity, but Fia felt nothing a woman was supposed to feel when she laid eyes on Santino Ferrara.

He was her biggest mistake.

And, judging from the cold, cynical glint in his eye, he considered her to be his.

Did he know?

Had he found out?

Fia wasn’t fooled by his apparently relaxed pose or his deceptively mild tone.

Santino Ferrara was the most dangerous man she’d ever met.

USA TODAY bestselling author SARAH MORGAN writes lively, sexy stories for both Mills & Boon® Modern™ Romance and Medical™ Romance.

As a child Sarah dreamed of being a writer, and although she took a few interesting detours on the way she is now living that dream. With her writing career she has successfully combined business with pleasure, and she firmly believes that reading romance is one of the most satisfying and fat-free escapist pleasures available. Her stories are unashamedly optimistic, and she is always pleased when she receives letters from readers saying that her books have helped them through hard times.

Romantic Times has described her writing as ‘action-packed and sexy’, and nominated her books for their Reviewers’ Choice Awards and their ‘Top Pick’ slot.

Sarah lives near London with her husband and two children, who innocently provide an endless supply of authentic dialogue. When she isn’t writing or reading Sarah enjoys music, movies, and any activity that takes her outdoors.

Readers can find out more about Sarah and her books from her website: www.sarahmorgan.com. She can also be found on Facebook and Twitter.

Recent titles by the same author:

ONCE A FERRARA WIFE …

DOUKAKIS’S APPRENTICE

THE TWELVE NIGHTS OF CHRISTMAS

Did you know these are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

The Forbidden

Ferrara

Sarah Morgan

For my editor Lucy Gilmour, who is wise,

clever and always wears great shoes. Thank you.

CHAPTER ONE

THERE was a shocked silence round the boardroom table.

Amused by the reaction, Santo Ferrara sat back in his chair. ‘I’m sure you’ll all agree it’s an exciting project,’ he drawled. ‘Thank you for your attention.’

‘You’ve lost your mind.’ It was his older brother who finally broke the silence. Cristiano, who had recently relinquished some of his responsibility in the company to spend more time with his young family. ‘It can’t be done.’

‘Because you didn’t succeed? Don’t beat yourself up. It’s fairly common for a man to lose his edge when he’s distracted by a wife and kids.’ Santo loaded his tone with sympathy, enjoying the brief interlude in what had been a long, punishing few weeks. And if he felt a slight twinge of envy that his brother had gone on to be as successful in his personal life as he was in business then he told himself that it was just a matter of time before he found the same thing himself. ‘It’s like seeing a great warrior fallen. Don’t blame yourself. Living with three women can soften a man.’

The rest of the Board exchanged nervous glances but wisely chose to remain silent.

Cristiano’s gaze locked on his. ‘I am still chairman of this company.’

‘Precisely. You’ve taken a back seat while you change nappies. Now leave the good ideas to the rest of us.’ He was being deliberately combative and Cristiano gave a reluctant laugh.

‘I’m not denying that your proposal is exciting. I can see the business potential in adapting the hotel to accommodate a wider range of sports and appeal to a younger demographic. I even agree that expanding on the West coast of Sicily has potential for a certain type of discerning traveller—’ he paused and when he looked at Santo his eyes were deadly serious ‘—but the success of the project rests on you gaining the extra land from the Baracchi family and old man Baracchi would shoot you through the head before he sold to you.’

Good-natured banter gave way to tension. Those around the table kept their eyes down, everyone well aware of the history between the two families. The whole of Sicily knew the history.

‘That is my problem to deal with,’ Santo said in a cool tone and Cristiano made an impatient sound as he pushed back his chair and paced over to the expanse of glass that overlooked the glittering Mediterranean sea.

‘Since you took over day-to-day running of the company you have more than proved yourself. You have done things I hadn’t even thought of doing.’ He turned. ‘But you will not be able to do this. You will simply inflame a situation that has been simmering for almost three generations. You should let it die.’

‘I am going to turn the Ferrara Beach Club into our most successful hotel.’

‘You will fail.’

Santo smiled. ‘Shall we bet on that?’

For once his brother didn’t return the smile or take up the challenge. ‘This goes deeper than sibling rivalry. You cannot do this.’

‘Enough time has passed for us to put grievances aside.’

‘That,’ Cristiano said slowly, ‘depends on the grievance.’

Santo felt the anger start to heat inside him but alongside the anger were darker, murkier emotions that sprang to life whenever the Baracchi name was mentioned. It was a visceral reaction, a conditioned response reinforced by a lifetime of animosity between the families. ‘I was not responsible for what happened to Baracchi’s grandson. You know the truth.’

‘This is not about truth or reason, but about passion and prejudice. Deep-rooted prejudice. I have already approached him. Made him several more than generous offers. Baracchi would see his family starve before he sells his land to a Ferrara. Negotiations are closed.’

Santo rose to his feet. ‘Then it’s time they were reopened.’

A man cleared his throat. ‘As your lawyer it’s my duty to warn against—’

‘Don’t give me negatives—’ Santo lifted his hand to silence the man, his eyes still fixed on his brother. ‘So your objection isn’t the commercial development which you concede makes sound business sense, but the interaction with the Baracchi family. Do you think I’m a coward?’

‘No, and that is what troubles me. You use reason and courage but Baracchi has neither. You are my brother.’ Cristiano’s voice thickened. ‘Guiseppe Baracchi hates you. He’s always been an irascible old man. What makes you think he will listen to you before he loses that infamous temper of his?’

‘He may be an irascible old man but he’s also a frightened old man in financial trouble.’

‘I’m willing to bet he’s not in so much trouble he’ll take money from a Ferrara. And frightened old men can be dangerous. We’ve maintained the hotel there because it would hurt our mother to sell our father’s first hotel, but I’ve been talking to her recently and—’

‘We’re not going to sell. I’m going to turn it around but to do that I need the land. All of the land. The whole bay.’ Santo saw the lawyer’s agitation but he ignored him. ‘I don’t just want the land for watersports, I want the Beach Shack. That restaurant pulls in more custom than all our restaurants in the hotel. This is not about fuelling a feud, it’s about protecting our business. While guests walk away from us to eat at the Beach Shack and watch the sunset, we are losing revenue.’

‘Which brings us to the second problem in this ambitious scheme of yours. That restaurant is run by his granddaughter—a woman who very possibly hates you even more than her grandfather.’ Cristiano looked him straight in the eye. ‘How do you think Fia will greet the news that you intend to make an offer for the land?’

He didn’t have to think. He knew.

She would fight him with everything she had.

They would clash. Tempers would burn hot.

And woven through the tension of the present would be the past.

Not just the long-standing feud over land, but their own personal history. Because he hadn’t been entirely honest with his brother, had he? In a family where no one had secrets, he had a secret. A secret he’d buried deep enough to ensure it would never see the light of day.

The sudden rush of black emotion took him by surprise. With an impatient frown he glanced out of the window to the beach beyond but he didn’t see sand or sea. Instead he saw Fiammetta Baracchi with her long legs and temper hotter than a red chilli pepper.

Cristiano was still watching him. ‘She hates you.’

Was it hate?

They hadn’t discussed feelings, he thought. They hadn’t discussed anything at all. Not even when they’d ripped each other’s clothes off, when his body had screamed for hers and hers for his, not once in the whole wild, erotic, out of control experience had they exchanged a single word.

And instinct told him she’d buried her secret as deeply as he’d buried his.

As far as he was concerned, that was the way it was staying.

The past had no place in this negotiation.

‘Under her management the Shack has gone from a few rickety tables on the beach to the most talked about eatery in Sicily. Rumour has it that she’s a talented chef.’

Cristiano shook his head slowly. ‘You’re walking into an explosive situation, Santo. At best it’s going to be messy.’

Carlo, their lawyer, put his head in his hands.

Santo ignored both of them just as he ignored the elemental rush of heat and the dark memories that, now woken, refused to return to sleep. ‘This feud has lasted too long. It’s time to move on.’

‘Not possible.’ Cristiano’s voice was harsh. ‘Guiseppe Baracchi’s grandson, his only male heir, died when he wrapped a car around a tree. Your car, Santo. And you expect him to shake your hand and sell you his land?’

‘Guiseppe Baracchi is a businessman and this deal makes perfect business sense.’

‘Are you going to tell him that before or after the old man shoots you?’

‘He won’t shoot me.’

‘He probably won’t need to.’ Cristiano gave a grim smile. ‘Knowing Fia, she’ll shoot you first.’

And that, Santo thought without emotion, was entirely possible.

‘This is the last snapper.’ Fia lifted the fish from the grill and plated it up. The heat from the fire warmed her cheeks. ‘Gina?’

‘Gina is outside checking out the driver of a Lamborghini that just pulled into our car park. You know she has a taste for men who can keep her in the style of her dreams. I’ll take those.’ Ben scooped up the plates and balanced them. ‘How is your grandfather tonight?’

‘Tired. He’s not himself. He doesn’t even have the energy to snap at people.’ Fia felt a ripple of worry and made a mental note to check on him next time she had a lull. ‘Are you coping out there? Tell Gina to leave the customers alone and work.’

‘You tell her. I’m too chicken.’ Ben skilfully dodged the waitress, who came sprinting into the kitchen. ‘Hey, be careful or we’ll be sending you out on the boat for more snapper.’

‘You’ll never guess who just turned up—’

Fia shot a glance at Ben as she started on the next order. ‘Serve the food or it will be cold and I don’t serve cold food.’ Aware that Gina was virtually trembling with excitement, Fia decided it would be quicker and more efficient just to let her gush. She added seasoning and olive oil to fresh scallops and dropped them onto the pan. They were so fresh they needed nothing but the best quality oil to bring out the flavour. ‘It must be someone exciting because I’ve never known you starstruck before and we’ve had plenty of celebrities in here.’ As far as she was concerned, a guest was a guest. They were here to eat and her job was to feed them. And she fed them well. Expertly she flipped the scallops and added fresh herbs and capers to the pan.

Gina sneaked a look over her shoulder to the restaurant. ‘It’s the first time I’ve seen him in person. He’s stunning.’

‘Whoever he is, I hope he booked because otherwise you’re going to have to send him away.’ Fia shook the pan constantly. ‘It’s a full house tonight.’

‘You won’t be sending him away.’ Gina sounded awestruck. ‘It’s Santo Ferrara. In the flesh. Only sadly not showing anywhere near as much flesh as I’d like in an ideal world.’

Fia stopped breathing.

Weakness spread through her body and then she started to shake, as if she’d suddenly been injected with something deadly. The pan slid from her hand and crashed onto the flame, the precious scallops forgotten.

‘He wouldn’t come here.’ He wouldn’t dare. She was talking to herself. Reassuring herself. But there was no reassurance to be had.

Since when did she know anything about what motivated Santo Ferrara?

‘Er—why wouldn’t he come?’ Gina looked intrigued. ‘Seems logical enough to me. His company owns the hotel next door and you serve great food.’

Gina wasn’t local, otherwise she would have known the history between the two families. Everyone knew. And Fia also knew that the Ferrara Beach Club, the hotel that shared her perfect curve of beach, was the smallest and least significant of the Ferrara hotel group. There was no earthly reason why Santo himself would choose to give it his personal attention.

Her concentration shot, Fia caught her elbow on the side of a hot pan. Pain seared through her and brought her back to the present. Furious with herself for forgetting the scallops, she plated them up with meticulous care and handed them to Gina, functioning on automatic. ‘This is for the couple on the waterfront,’ she croaked. ‘It’s their anniversary and they booked this six months ago so make sure you treat them with reverence. This is a big night for them. I don’t want them disappointed.’

Gina gaped at her. ‘Aren’t you going to—’

‘I’m fine! It’s just burned flesh—’ Fia spoke through her teeth ‘—I’ll put it under cold water in a minute.’

‘I wasn’t thinking about your elbow. I was thinking about the fact that Santo Ferrara is standing in your restaurant and you don’t seem to care,’ Gina said faintly. ‘You treat every customer like royalty and when someone genuinely important turns up you ignore him. You do know who he is? The Ferrara, yes? Ferrara Resorts. Five star all the way.’

‘I know exactly who he is.’

‘But Boss, if he’s come here to eat—’

‘He hasn’t come here to eat.’ A Ferrara would never sit down at a Baracchi table for fear of being poisoned. She had no idea why he was here and that lack of insight frustrated her because she couldn’t fight what she didn’t understand. And mingled in with the shock and anger was dread.

He’d walked boldly into her restaurant at peak time. Why?

Only something really, really important would make him do that.

Terror rippled through her. No, she thought wildly, it couldn’t possibly be that.

He didn’t know.

He couldn’t know.

With a final curious glance, Gina hurried out of the kitchen and Fia ran cold water over her burned elbow, trying to reassure herself that it was a routine visit. Another attempt by the Ferrara family to hold out an olive branch. There had been others, and her grandfather had taken each and every olive branch and snapped it in two. Since her brother’s death, there had been nothing. No overtures. No contact.

Until now …

Functioning on automatic, she reached above her head for a fresh bulb of garlic. She grew it herself in her garden, along with vegetables and herbs and she enjoyed the growing almost as much as she enjoyed the cooking. It soothed her. Gave her a feeling of home and family she’d never derived from the people around her. Reaching for her favourite knife, she started chopping, trying to think how she would have reacted if the circumstances had been different. If the terror wasn’t involved. If the stakes weren’t so high—

She would have been cold. Businesslike.

‘Buonasera, Fia.’

A deep male voice came from the doorway and she turned, the knife turning from a kitchen implement to a weapon. The crazy thing was, she didn’t know his voice. But she knew his eyes and they were looking at her now—two dark pools of dangerous black. They gleamed bright with intelligence and hard with ruthless purpose. They were the eyes of a man who thrived in a cut-throat business environment. A man who knew what he wanted and wasn’t afraid to go after it. They were the same eyes that had glittered into hers in the darkness three years before as they’d ripped each other’s clothes and slaked a fierce hunger.

Those three years had added a couple of inches to his broad shoulders and more bulk to muscles she remembered all too well. Apart from that he was exactly the same. Still the same ‘born to rule’ Ferrara self-confidence; the same innate sophistication, polished until it shone bright as the paintwork of his Lamborghini. He was six foot three of hard, sensual masculinity but Fia felt nothing a woman was supposed to feel when she laid eyes on Santo Ferrara. A normal woman wouldn’t feel this searing anger, this almost uncontrollable urge to scratch his handsome face and thump that powerful chest. When she was near him, every feeling was exaggerated. She felt vulnerable and defenceless and those feelings brought out the worst in her. Usually she was warm and civil to everyone who stepped inside her kitchen. Reviews commended her hospitality and the intimate, friendly atmosphere of the restaurant. But she couldn’t even bring herself to wish this man a good evening. And that was because she didn’t want him to have a good evening.

She wanted him to go to hell and stay there.

He was her biggest mistake.

And judging from the cold, cynical glint in his eye, he considered her to be his.

‘Well, this is a surprise. The Ferrara brothers don’t usually step down from their ivory tower to mingle with us mortals. Checking out the competition?’ She adopted her most businesslike tone, while all the time her anxiety was rising and the questions were pounding through her head.

Did he know?

Had he found out?

A faint smile touched his mouth and the movement distracted her. There was an almost deadly beauty in the sensual curve of those lips. Everything about the man was dark and sexual, as if he’d been designed for the express purpose of drawing women to their doom. If rumour were correct, he did that with appalling frequency.

Fia wasn’t fooled by his apparently relaxed pose or his deceptively mild tone.

Santo Ferrara was the most dangerous man she’d ever met.

Without exchanging words, she’d fallen. Even now, years later, she didn’t understand what had happened that night. One moment she’d been alone with her misery. The next, his hand had been on her shoulder and everything that had happened after that was a blur. Had it been about human comfort? Possibly, except that comfort implied gentle emotions and those had been in short supply that night.

He watched her now, his face giving no hint as to his thoughts. ‘I’ve heard good things about your restaurant. I’ve come to find out if any of them are true.’

He didn’t know, she thought. If he knew, he wouldn’t be toying with her.

‘They’re all true, but I’m afraid I can’t satisfy your curiosity. We’re fully booked.’ Her lips formed the words while her mind raced over the possible reasons for his visit. Was that really all this was? An idle visit to check out the competition? No, surely not. Santo Ferrara would delegate that task to a minion. Her brain throbbed with the strain of trying to second-guess him.

‘We both know you can find me a table if you want to.’

‘But I don’t want to.’ Her fingers tightened on the knife. ‘Since when did a Ferrara dine at the same table as a Baracchi?’

His eyes locked on hers. Her heart beat just a little bit faster.

The searing look he sent her from under those dense, inky lashes reminded her that once they hadn’t just dined; they’d hungered and they’d feasted. They’d devoured each other and taken until there was nothing left to take. And she could still remember the taste of him; feel the rippling power of his body against hers as they’d indulged in dark, forbidden pleasure, the memory of which had never left her.

In a crowded room she wouldn’t have known his voice, but she knew how he’d feel and her palms grew hot and her knees weakened as her thoughts broke free of the restraints she’d imposed, liberating memories so vivid that for a moment she couldn’t breathe.

He smiled.

Not the smile of a friend, but the smile of a conqueror contemplating the imminent surrender of a captive. ‘Eat at my table, Fia.’

His casual use of her name suggested a familiarity that didn’t exist and it unbalanced her, as he’d no doubt intended. He was a man who always had to be in control. He’d been in control on that night and there had been something terrifying about the force of passion he’d unleashed.

She’d taken him because she’d been in desperate need of human comfort.

He’d taken her because he could.

‘This is my table we’re talking about,’ she said in a clear voice, ‘and you’re not invited.’ She had to get rid of him. The longer he stayed, the bigger the risk to her. ‘You have your own restaurant next door. If you’re hungry then I’m sure they’d accommodate you, although I admit that neither the food nor the view is as good as mine so I can understand why you find both lacking.’

There was a stillness about him that made her uneasy. A watchfulness that she didn’t trust.

‘I need to speak to your grandfather. Tell me where he is.’

So that was why he was here. Another round of fruitless negotiations that would lead the same way as the others. Thanks goodness he’d made this visit at night, she thought numbly. No matter what happened, she had to ensure he didn’t return during the day. ‘You must have a death wish. You know how he feels about you.’

Those eyes were hooded as he watched her. ‘And does he know how you feel about me?’

His oblique reference to that night shocked her because it was something that had never been mentioned before.

Was he threatening her? Was he about to expose her?

Relief had been replaced by sick panic as various avenues of horror opened up before her. Was that why he’d done it? To have a hold over her in the future? ‘My grandfather is old and unwell. If you have something to say you can say it to me. If you want to talk business, then you’ll talk to me. I run the restaurant.’

‘But the land is his.’ His soft voice was a million times more disturbing than an explosion of temper and that control of his worried her because she felt none where he was concerned. She thought about what she’d read—about Santo Ferrara more than filling his brother’s large shoes in his running of their global corporation. And suddenly she realised how foolish she’d been to think that the Beach Club was too insignificant to be of interest to the big boss. It was precisely because it was too insignificant that it had caught his attention. He wanted to expand the Beach Club, and to do that he needed—